Skin in My Teeth
by EsotericVanity
Summary: In which Sherlock was once a boy who possessed far too much power, and far too much heart. One cannot thrive in pace with another. Thus sacrifice was made. Leaving him the efficient clinical he'd always known himself to be. What of the few essential traits lost in the deletion process? He was safe now. WARNING CIRCA VIEW: Self-harm, Gore, Cannibalism, Implied/Referenced Rape, Crime
1. Piquant Divinity

Tear tracks trailed from the corners of his eyes. The warm salt water delicately weaving past his hairline and into his painted curls. And he did nothing to stop them, it was futile. All because a few generation x jackasses decided red paint would suit him well.

It didn't.

So here he lay, finally, completely, utterly, indubitably, incontrovertibly _done_.

Sherlock raised a shaky hand to his bruised lips, only parting them for his sweet nicotine. No one else. Not once more. And thought, as his head leant against the cool ceramic of the Victorian bathtub. Completely empty and dry, save for the beanpole dressed to a T in skintight jeans, The Rolling Stones, and paint redder than the shirt's trademark kiss. Just thought, as he watched rings of smoke fade into nothingness.

Let it all run. Fuck it.

 _How do you win? Find balance. Find smug satisfaction in infinity. Yet maintain your stifling anchor, lest you lose yourself in a sea of possibility, the unknown, and mentality. Your true capacity? However, quite inevitably, you'll drift._

Mycroft had warned him about this, said he wasn't stable. Said he'd decimate underneath his imbalanced mentality, the pessimistic effect would only magnify his teenage-chemical haze of 'stupid thought'. Effectively 'losing'.

 _Before we continue you mustn't forget. Not 'the sea'. A. Plural. One of many. For all we know, they may be endless. Perspectives forever changing, shifting, interlocking, conflicting. Oh look, you're back to square one again, you fucking square. But what's the end point? Well, just your everyday pessimist of course._

He could already tell why. Swell opportunity to put his willpower to the test. Mycroft had clearly been speaking from experience, given the way his eyes clouded from unspoken memory during his little, silent exemplar. Sherlock could trump him.

 _Tell me, what is, for lack of a better term (as always), stupider? Pessimism in a world of meaninglessness or accepting one's uselessness and becoming optimistic- if not for one's spiritual and bodily health. What drives you to be this way? Maybe you are crazy- if so then why is it so difficult to conform to such dillydally! Is it ego? Disorder? Is your code flawed? Are you gifted? Are you delusional? Are you ungrateful?_

Sherlock still didn't care.

 _Nope, you're alone! And what a great spectacle you make, no-one's dear! What a spectacle indeed. And while your expectations for anything but remain unrealistic. You yearn. You yearn until your chest shakes and your breath hitches- willing your eyes to cease their inane burning. Why? Is it due to your deprivation of something so common yet unbeknownst to you?_

He refused to.

 _For it must be everything you've ever wanted, it can make you whole again. Hah! My eyes sting with mirth! What took you apart to begin with? Silly ingrate! Remember that woman you passed yesterday? You observed her tired gaze with something akin to detached pity- her eyes had long faded and dulled, clothes ratty and stained as she requested that man oh so hesitantly to pay her bus fare._

Sherlock sniffled. _You don't have eyes, you're in my head. Mine sting in pain, not mirth. Never mirth._ He reminded himself, because he could've sworn he could hear his own voice echo off the cream tile of the bathroom walls.

 _You wondered then. How had she sunk, what was it like, did her chest shake in pace with yours through her recollections and apprehensions? Did she tremble more so? How very selfish you were. For you possessed not a mere pinch of humility for the true victim before you. To go as far as to compare someone as privileged as yourself to someone so poverty-stricken and undoubtedly prideless._

That's enough.

 _Ah, loneliness: It can give even the poshest of the commonwealth the mentality of a terminally ill, invalided war veteran suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, lying helpless and watching as everyone slowly but surely abandons them. Pathetic._

 _You're better than this. And far from done. What about your dear, needful, loving mother?_

 _Multiple children around you giving you a perfect opportunity. The opportunity to not be a huge sod. But they're all idiots, and you tell them so. All willing to give you exactly what it is you desire. What do you desire? Something unfamiliar and new? Knowing and not knowing it'll fail as every relationship will and always has you fear, you repress. Under a disinterested façade._

 _So you make deal. Coping with the fact that you can't run away, at least not yet._

 _You can't wait to run. Run until your chest burns and you can't feel your legs, only then satisfied by your aimless sprint. You relish annual moments of peace. Dogs tire from barking at a seemingly dead animal at some point. They'll chew you later. It's all a pattern after all. It ends eventually._

 _You know better. Remember your first run-in with society and their norms, how they shun you, condescend you? Grade school was a dream. From the looks of it, age had yet to play a part in their developmental process. Albeit a positive one. They're jealous, bitter and green, it leaves an acidic aftertaste._

 _Remember._

 ** _You're weak._**

 _Control._

 ** _They're Monsters._**

 _Delete._

 ** _Beat them at their own game until they can't feel their toes._**

 _Delete._

 _ **Why would high-school be any different?**_

 _Delete. Delete.. Delete...Delete?_

Delete.

Sherlock plucked the cigarette from his lips, holding the smoke in his lungs until they burned. Either from asphyxiation or the nicotine. And exhaled slowly, grinding the smoldering cigarette bud into his left forearm. He felt it. The pain instant, a shock. But Sherlock didn't hesitate in his ministrations. The skin burned and blistered, browning and blackening from the ash and the heat. Both probably. He wasn't sure which trounced which. He just felt it.

 _Delete._

 ** _Why would high-school be any different._**

Oh, it most certainly was.

Sherlock scoffed, ceasing his ancient train of thought. Inner dialogue assisted his upbringing greatly. It constantly acted as a guide to his teenage-typical chemical imbalance. If he hadn't had that, god knows where he'd be. Nonetheless, his developmental process was nothing short of fascinating. He often found himself reminiscing about his past run-ins with "the norm".

How it had influenced him throughout. How they lashed and scarred a vulnerable one of their own. Melded him into the deformed man he now was.

Deformed by their standards. Advanced and exceeding mediocre understanding by his. All because they hadn't had their eggs on rye that morning, instead on putrid, abuse-worthy whole grain. It had been highly educational. The psychology intriguing. More so than he'd ever imagined. The bystander effect had proven greatly beneficial in his later years.

It was like watching a movie in a way. The characters misfortune or glee elicited ghosted sympathy or understanding in Sherlock. If only because it was starring him himself. He found the chest constrictions and raging, desperate flares that burned at the memories captivating. Second-handed.

The deletion process had been carried out flawlessly.

Sherlock curled in on himself, butt sore from remaining still on the uncomfortable, cardboard cot. And rested his chin on his knee-immediately raising it back up at the sharp pain that flared-, continuing to pick at a particularly tough and jagged toenail.

How dull, he'd even been forced to recall his own upbringing. How long had he been in here? Ah. He turned his mussed head to view the window. A crisp grey sky was visible through the metal- steel, cheap as always- bars. Rising up from his fetal position and using the metal bed frame as leverage, as to not irritate his tender torso, he patted to the window barefoot. Breathing in deeply as he went. Dew, morning. Around 6 to 6:30 am. Still humid from last nights shower. Adding to its occluding moisture. Would've been a shame if they put him underground.

Two weeks and five days had passed. Two weeks and five days since he'd last laid eyes on John. Two weeks and four days and 12 hours since John had last smiled at him. Two weeks and three days and 14 hours since John had last called him the brilliant man he was.

Ultimately leaving him to his nonexistent devices, not a roommate in sight.

Jesus, he might've damn well carved John's name into their forehead and had them pliant and silent. Sitting there quivering in fear as he explained the process of anthropodermic bibliopegy. And how John would make a most dashing cover. His skin a perfect tone prior to dissection and dehydration. One of Afghanistan's many appreciated betterments. But that he'd attempt to keep the skin's color as vibrant as possible.

Not that he'd ever tell the real John that. John would be mad, disgusted at him, horrified and quite possibly terrified. Sherlock couldn't have that.

But he supposed it was a little late to prevent such a reaction. He should've been more cautious, why wasn't he more careful?! Sherlock growled, relaxing at the dull throb and sting of broken flesh his hand gave as it came in contact with the aluminum bed frame. How was he supposed to predict the Yard growing a lick of sense?

He'd taken essential care in disposing of unwanted body part's. Ensured the procurement had been erased, every fleck of blood or broken struggle-induced fingernail had been contained. Promptly taking great care in running his victim's severed hands over furniture and appliances, every doorknob, every used cup, every picture. All the palms strokes treating each object accordingly. The prints looking every bit as casual, reverent or rushed, easily equating his victim's character and regimen. It was mostly unnecessary but he'd indulged in the act.

To assist this imitation. A bit of stalking beforehand never hurt. (Surely one hadn't guessed him as London's signature homicidal and rewrote a will depicting his character down to his very curls.)

Massacred their most distinguishing features, making their skull unrecognizable to its every curve, becoming a ragged, sharp edge to the bone. Hurling machetes at dead bodies happened to be loads more entertaining than a conservative whip. The more blood the better. Feeling the warm, seemingly endless supply of red life paint his body was exhilarating. It was wrong and it was right. He's always loved things he couldn't have. It left him glowing. Perhaps Elizabeth Bathory wasn't too far of with her beauty routine. John even complemented his fair complexion upon arriving from a local pub, lightly inebriated. He may have preened just a bit.

He'd even dissolved his victims teeth in a small pot of boiling lye. Just an experiment, John. Shame, they would have made for lovely souvenirs and reference to oral dissolution.

 _And despite that._ He'd never left any survivors in his wake, they were far too precious. And couldn't be wasted. Not leaving a single fingerprint, not on the secluded warehouse's light switch, only on the cook book resting above the fireplace. He purposefully left at the most private of hours, as to not awaken John. Not a bystander in sight. It was perfect, not even Mycroft or his pets would know. His hacking skills weaved farther than most would reckon. Mycroft' firewalls hadn't a snowballs chance in hell.

Then how?

Oh, Mycroft would whack him upside the head with his umbrella for mucking up so badly. If he weren't so busy stress-eating. Probably considering choking to death on his pie slab because his beloved baby brother had a taste for visceral parfait garnished with dried epidermis twists.

Sherlock sighed, he'd ask to be hit again.

And John...he'd surely seen pictures of his latest project. Was feeling scared, thinking he'd just escaped most certain death. Daft little John, thinking Sherlock would ever lay an unwelcome pinky finger on him. No matter his longing and frequent lucid dreaming. Sherlock respected him far too much to consider. It ached to repress at times.

He wished John was here. Uncaring of the fact John would either scream for help and bang at the cell door, maybe beat him bloody for his gruesome, immoral acts. It would be funny.

Sherlock was just so _bored_.

But no matter. They would be reunited in due course. Besides, John was no doubt still cross with him. Perhaps this ludicrously long wait was necessary. Let him cool down. He would explain eventually. He would get the chance.

All the better to recite his worthless opening statement.


	2. Hazardous Guise

"Oh fuck."

John murmured miserably, crouched on his knees in the loo. Head bent over the toilet in front of him as the smell of his own stomach acid burned his nostrils. And promptly vomited into the stained bowl for the fifth time that hour. Photographs were forever ingrained into his so very fragile skull. Much like the one he'd always hid Sherlock's custom made, long, unfiltered Marlboro's in.

He groaned. Leaning his crinkled forehead onto the cool porcelain. God bless janitors.

Feeling another wholly unwelcome pang spike through his chest. John cursed loudly when his eyes burned and gripped the bowls edge tightly. Squeezing his eyes tighter when a knock shook the bathroom stall's door.

"John, are you in there?" It was Greg. Sounding every bit as cautious as John could hate.

John sniffled and reached for the toilet paper dispenser and wiped his mouth. Only after spitting into the bowl again for good measure. But the acidic aftertaste nor the raw sensation his chest plagued him with ceased. He guessed they'd stick around for a while.

"Yeah, I'll be out in a sec." A silent request to be left the fuck alone. Well, as silent as the blatant growl that accompanied his words could be. Seriously, was it too much to ask to be left alone after finding out your best and closest friend. So painfully and _dangerously close_ friend, had been a killer since last May?

He steadied himself against the wall, willing his sudden nausea away. Knowing his stomach had nothing left to offer. And not fancying becoming a bawling mess of dry-heaves any longer than necessary. He stood up, feeling small in the cramped Scottland Yard bathroom stall.

Today was the day. He's been called to Scottland Yard's department to discuss his links to the photos, and the victims identities. Lestrade had been hesitant, but it was minute. Who was he to deny John?

John had suffered a week of being brutally interrogated, spending his nights in some unknown building's holding cell. Keeping him in the dark, cold and alone, his stomach twisting in nauseating worry being his only company-doing nothing to steady him for the disgusted sneers and intimidating acts the next day held. Nor the unfairly accusatory questions on how long he'd assisted Sherlock's killings.

Which was ridiculous, because they had clearly made a mistake. One that he'd ensured they'd answer for. Painfully and thorough, stripping them of their stature and long-respected positions. It was shameful, they weren't soldiers, they were brats.

He'd hope the few precocious baby boomers would set the brats straight, in the end they stood by. In the end, said brats had somehow managed to outwit the most brilliant man John had ever had the ill fortune of knowing. Brats that knew his best friend better than he did.

Lestrade managed to pull some strings and got him out of there. How he'd managed, John would never know. But he was left relatively alone after that.

Until today.

It had been two weeks and five days since he'd experienced a rather rude awakening. To Sherlock's particularly gruesome habit. He'd been previously alluded to Sherlock's more often than not peculiar schedule. Steadily declining boundaries, easily asking the strangest of things. Well, not just strange...briefly alarming maybe. The look Sherlock had on his face was just...strange. Then hi complete indifference to substance abuse, and hell, even his beloved tobacco.

At first he'd been relieved, curious. John had questioned the change one evening, and was rewarded with one of the sweetest smiles he'd ever seen Sherlock give. Almost quelling him of his past concerns. And had been answered with a simple "Yoga." To which he'd laughed at until his stomach hurt. Sherlock had in kind. Then forgetting to bring up the subject even once more.

But now John knew he'd found something much more relieving. And what. Sherlock had left at the either darkest hours of night, or duskiest of mornings. When he'd usually focus on conditioning John into remaining awake until whatever time it was he finished torturing him. All with his one of a kind, flawless, infernal violin performances.

Even then, he hadn't suspected anything more than a partner that shared Sherlock's eccentricity. Or possible passion for crime-solving. Leaving John feeling just a bit bitter.

At least until five kevlar-clad men arrived at the morgue a day later, interrupting Molly mid-onychomycosis-types-speech and claiming Sherlock to be homicidal. Naturally, John asked what the fuck they were talking about and shoved them back before they could reach Sherlock. Because tasers weren't necessary and he was John's _best friend. What the hell were they talking about?!_

He was promptly rewarded for his efforts by being manhandled to the floor while two other men rushed past and one guarded to door with a scary gun. Other occupant's chattering growing steadily louder and backing away from the situation. SWAT, punctual as always. Why would SWAT be here anyways, homicide suspect or not. It was alarmingly excessive.

He'd struggled against the metal restraints, after being tightly handcuffed and held down. John still had marks on his wrists. Then he'd watched, more than a little enraged, as Sherlock backed away from the men looking wary. But Sherlock was cornered by the wall displaying his research on how Polymyositis effected posture, ultimately leading to shoe imprints. And the labs counter and sink.

Sherlock was punched in the face, the right hook a dark whip, looking as absolutely vicious as it sounded- accompanied by a feral snarl muffled by the first mans mask. The head-gear looking every bit the muzzle it was. And slamming Sherlock to the right and into the hard counter, his lithe torso crashing into the edge.

Sherlock shook his head- a stupid idea, really- and attempted to raise himself on the counter, or at least stay steady. A truly pitiful sight. Serving to make John's blood boil.

John was thrashing and yelling at them. His arms were twisted painfully behind his back, gripped at the wrists by the behemoth crouched at his side. He couldn't really tell what he was saying, something to do with them being wrong and this was wrong and they were _wrong wrong wrong._ He briefly understood Sherlock's frustration for a moment, and it burned.

John looked to his left to see that a dangerous looking Molly was being blocked by a towering soldier. Apparently trying to hash it out verbally, and with every reply the man uttered-just out of ear-shot, her eyes widened before she swooped back in, all angry sibilance. Clearly infuriated at their incompetence, before John returned his attention back to Sherlock and the soldier circling him like a shark.

Sherlock, looking dazed, peered up at his assaulter. Appearing...resigned, Sherlock sighed and pushed himself up, using the plastic counter as leverage. And brushing nonexistent dust from his button-up haughtily.

"Greetings, Daryll. Long time no see."

"Shut your fuckin' mouth!" The soldier growled gravelly, tobacco-smoking Brooklyn accent somehow thickening the revulsion in his brutal order.

John squirmed more insistently and twisted his neck back to glare up at his captor. Why weren't they doing anything? This wasn't allowed! They couldn't brutalize criminals, much less innocents, for some personal fucking vendetta. This was madness! He told them so. The man above him just grimaced in disdain and fisted a hand in his hair, roughly smacking the left side of his face against the tile. Giving him a perfect view of the illegal spectacle. John couldn't look away if he wanted to. He could feel his brow sting, he was probably bleeding.

Good, the more to use against them the better. Just _not Sherlock_.

"What's wrong? Bachelor's lifestyle not treating you well?"

John wanted to scream at him. Now was not the time! Now was not the time spill a reluctant SWAT soldier man's guts out to him!

Later, John would find out it wasn't the first time Sherlock had spilled gut's out the man.

More specifically his girlfriends.

The soldier was shaking. Not in grief but in rage, and it scared John, unlike Sherlock-the blasé prick. Was he blind? Sherlock was, quite surely, not coming out this unscathed. If only beaten bloody. Unless John managed to do something, but they weren't listening. Did everyone here despise Sherlock? How had he managed to piss of _five SWAT soldiers?!_ Some exasperated little part of him didn't deem it impossible.

John grit his teeth, his face still pressed against the slick surface beneath his head. It was either blood or sweat, and he couldn't have cared less if he tried. "What the fuck do you bastards think you're doing?!"

"Quiet, scum." A simple command, English vowels thick with Russian ictus.

The fist in his hair tightened until his eyes watered. His head then slammed into the tile once more, a sharp movement making the flesh of left cheek and brow go numb. Leaving him dazed, the lights above him were a blinding swirl of white and opalescent color.

"Don't touch him!"

The menacing baritone broke through his pained haze, and he opened his eyes to see a tall, blurry figure shoving another one away and rushing towards him. Before it was roughly tackled, the two wrestling until the other triumphed, straddling Sherlock- "Make 'im watch!" The hand in his hair shook his head a bit more, then adjusting his head to look farther in their direction-making his neck crick.

Soon enough, the sound of fists striking flesh and bone filled the air. But, Sherlock was surprisingly silent. Despite having his head repeatedly whacked to and fro, his face undoubtedly decimating beneath the force by now.

"What's wrong? Cat got your tongue? Sing for me!" The manic soldier annunciated each sentence with a wince-worthy strike of his blood soaked, leather fist.

John felt angry tears burn his eyes as his chest seared with rage. He was fucking indignant at this point. Sherlock wasn't even retaliating. Why wasn't he retaliating?

"Stop it! Stop it right fucking now! What are you doing?! He didn't do anything!" He could feel his throat going raw. It hurt to swallow.

That did something, finally.

Blood splattered across the protective-glass of the soldiers mask. The soldiers wide eyes stared down at his victim in shock, arm frozen mid-air. John realized then, with dread gripping his chest in a steadily-tightening fist, that Sherlock had just spat on the feral animal above him.

John could see his shit-eating grin drip red from here. "She tasted divine."


End file.
